Of course. I was once a listless, doll-like child who took no interest in anything. It was Bertia, my darling wife, who thawed that cold place inside me and set it ablaze.
I’d never show the man who wanted to take her even a fraction of that warmth.
In short, there would be no mercy.
I felt Zeno flinch behind me. When I glanced back, his face had gone pale; he looked as if some unseen thing had startled him.
Ah. He was afraid of me.
Zeno knew me well enough to read past the smile plastered on my face. Even if I wore a pleasant expression, the way the light in my eyes shifted and the tightness at the edges of my mouth would let him know I was angry. And he feared that anger, because he knew I showed no pity to my enemies.
The man in front of me, however, continued on obliviously, mistaking my practiced smile for genuine warmth and prattling as if we were old friends.
“Actually, I saw it with my own eyes,” Prince Ramtak said, smugness bright in his tone. “I watched her walking with our country’s guardian serpent. Subduing it, even.”
He smiled as though presenting a prize. I returned a smile as cold and polite as a winter window. Of course, I’d noticed him watching Bertia and Futamata. I’d felt the gaze from afar that day. I had already taken precautions so that if he made a fuss or tried to involve others, I could handle it. For the time being, I’d simply observed, since he hadn’t stirred.
“Prince Cecil,” he went on, his voice oily with intent, “for you and for Alphasta, a country that does not revere the Serpent God, Crown Princess Bertia is replaceable and, frankly, troublesome. But for my nation, a holy woman who commands a guardian serpent is unique. She is useful.”
A surge of fury rose in me so sharp I had to clamp down on it, as if keeping a blade from slipping free. I swallowed the urge to shred that smirking face to pieces and replied with the bland politeness of someone offering tea, “Indeed. The Saintess is important to her people.”
If I wanted, I could end him here and now with little difficulty.
Unfortunately, he was, after all, the first prince of a nation. Acting on impulse would create a mess, with consequences that included political fallout, public scandal, and a web of grudges. I refused to burden Bertia with that sorrow. The current Crown Princess of his country, Princess Lysonna, was a friend of Bertia’s. To fling this nation into ruin or to manufacture a breach between friends in order to settle a personal score would be cruel and foolish. Bertia would hate me for it.
Therefore, the only thing that must be dealt with was Ramtak himself. I already possessed the means, subtle and surgical, to neutralize him. There was no need for blood today. For now, I would let his childish prattle roll off like water from silk and listen only to learn.
Oblivious to my thoughts, Prince Ramtak smiled and laid out his fantasy as if rehearsing a play.
“You give us what you don’t want, and we’ll say that Crown Princess Bertia and I discovered a love so true that even the Serpent God blessed it. Thus, she’ll become the Saintess of my country, the ever-magnanimous Crown Prince recognizing and accepting that love.”
The absurdity of it made my lips curl, but I kept my face impassive. Whoever convinced him such a farce could work? Still, it didn’t matter; that scene would never be staged.
“Then I shall take your wife,” he went on, suddenly transactional. “We will, of course, give you suitable compensation. Perhaps Princess Bistona of Umyuve as a substitute, and the duke’s daughter, Magawana Margone, from my own country. Would those satisfy you?”
A cold laugh threatened to escape me. I would refuse them even if they were offered for free. Bertia is the only woman who matters to me.
Untroubled by taste or tact, Ramtak rattled on.
“If it helps, we can assist you in acquiring Umyuve. Our fleet is formidable at sea, and my nation excels at maritime warfare.”
His plan had escalated from shameless to absurdly imperial.
First, he bargains; now he speaks of conquest as if it were a shopping list.
“I have no intention of invading Umyuve,” I said flatly.
He blinked, then recovered into an assured tone. “Very well. Then let us pretend that is the plan… for now.”
The certainty in his voice irritated me almost as much as the presumption. Why did he imagine he could decide my thoughts and intentions for me? What gave him that confidence? I could not fathom it.
“Very well. We’ll decide your compensation later,” Ramtak continued. “Right now, the important thing is constructing a story in which you and the Crown Princess part on good terms and I walk away with the Saintess.”
“Wait, you expect me to act before we’ve even agreed on the compensation?” I snapped.
He blinked as if my question were impertinent. The man caused offense in everything from his requests to his methodology. Did he not understand that the content of the compensation would determine whether anyone would accept such an arrangement? Not that I would ever give Bertia away for any price.
“You don’t see it as a bad thing,” he said, waving a hand as if the solution were simple. “For you, an amicable separation would be no loss; you’d keep your pride and be spared scandal. And it gives you time to think about what you might ask in return.”
If I parted with Bertia, my world would drain of color. I would be thrown back into that faded, apathetic existence that she alone chased away. The idea that this would be “no loss” was almost laughable. My life would be over in all but name.
“Do you mean you’ll propose the compensation yourself?” I asked, steady despite the churn in my chest.
“We’ll propose; whether you accept depends on the terms. But we will try to honor as many of your wishes as possible.”
Ah. So if I demanded his head, would he hand it over with a bow? Of course not.
I could take it by force if he refused and call it compensation for the insult. Not that I actually intended to ask for such a gruesome thing.
“All right, let’s begin the plan,” he said, launching into his scheme with the enthusiasm of a man who believed in his own script.
His “plan,” in short, was shamelessly simple: over the coming days, he would ingratiate himself with Bertia, win her affections, and on the night of the party, she would publicly declare that she had been chosen by the Serpent God and that she loved him.
I would play the reluctant husband who, after a struggle, accepted her decision. A neat little drama to charm both Alphasta and Seahealby.
Am I supposed to be the discarded lover in his melodrama? The thought made my skin prickle. He’d somehow imagined this hackneyed tableau would endear us to the citizens of both nations.
It wouldn’t.
I watched him go on, prattling at length about his own plan, feeling nothing but contempt. Every time he spoke, a fresh ripple of irritation pooled inside me.
How utterly stupid.